I had PM'd this story to Riv earlier, with an explanation that I had always envisioned the Hall of Fire as the home of a Bardic college -- therefore, it was not simply a place where the elves of Imladris gathered in the evening for music, storytelling, and poetry, but a place of learning where young artists could progress from apprentice to journeyman to Master and, in the case of very powerful singers, to Bard.

I further indulged this idea in a spate of creative writing that resulted in some Tolkien-inspired fiction. My protagonist is Lindariel (now you know the source of my screen name!), who begins my tale as a precocious young 5-year-old elfling from Thranduil's court in Mirkwood who has been sent to Imladris to be apprenticed in the Hall of Fire. On the journey from Mirkwood to Rivendell, the caravan her family is journeying with is attacked by orcs in the vale-filled lands between the Misty Mountains and Rivendell. Elladan, Elrohir, and the Dunedain arrive to massacre the orcs, but not before most of the caravan members, including Lindariel's parents, have been killed. Her mother had managed to hide the frightened child inside a trunk before coming to her husband's defense. Elladan is the one who finds her in the wreckage of the family's wagon and takes the traumatized child to his father, who calls her wandering spirit back. "Helping" Elrond is a charming 5-year-old boy, who just happens to be named Estel; Lindariel and Estel will become life-long friends. (I actually do have her entire life mapped out; one day maybe I will actually finish writing it!)

This short story depicts Lindariel's first introduction to the Hall of Fire. I hope you like it!

Lindariel could not help gaping in wonder as she walked through the hallways and courtyards of Imladris at Lord Elrond's side with Estel bounding ahead to point out the next "favorite" place they were to encounter and bounding back to gauge her reaction. At every turn, there were wonderful rooms adorned with rich fabrics and tapestries, paintings and stonework, intricately carved furniture, and planters full of ferns and mosses, herbs and flowers. There were shelves full of books and scrolls, statues of ancient warriors and beautiful ladies, brightly burning hearths with piles of cushions for reading or writing or storytelling or sleeping or just thinking. There were courtyards and gardens, arbors and hothouses, pergolas and pavilions and amphitheatres.

Thranduil's court had been a place of great luxury and constant merry-making, full of light and song, dancing and jesting, clever verse and intricate games. But Imladris was a haven of learning and an altar to memory, where thoughts ran deeper, pleasures were more satisfying and longer-lasting, and where the spirit was nurtured.

But the most wondrous place of all was the great vaulted room that Estel named the Hall of Fire in a voice filled with awe and reverence and great wonder and delight. Both sides of the long hallway were lined with large fireplaces, each with a dais for singers, musicians, or poets and concentric rings of stone steps where listeners could sit or students could be instructed.

Down the center of the room ran a series of pools and fountains. As Lindariel raised her eyes to the ceiling at Estel's direction, she gasped to see that over the pools the roof was open to the skies to admit the breezes of Manwë and the radiant light of the stars of Elbereth. When it rained, the music of the raindrops tinkling into the pools added to the glory of the music and poetry within the Hall. At the end of the Hall was the Great Hearth, where the Master and his family would sit for more formal performances and where contests and trials were conducted among the apprentice and journeyman students.

Throughout the Hall, at the different hearths, groups of harpists, lutenists, poets, and singers of various ages were gathered for daily lessons and exercises with their masters. Elrond quietly explained to Lindariel the meaning of the different colors the students wore: blue for apprentices, green for journeymen, burgundy for masters, and at the end of the room at the Great Hearth was a tall, brown-haired elf in a rich purple robe -- Amarthalion, the Chief Bard of Imladris.

He looked up from his seat at the Great Hearth and smiled with pleasure as Elrond approached with the delightful boy Estel and the newest apprentice to the Hall of Fire. He bowed briefly to Master of Imladris and then knelt to greet the two children and take Lindariel's hands in his. "Welcome, my dear Lindariel, to the Hall of Fire. This is the place where we celebrate the miracles of music and poetry, where we perfect our voices and learn to play wonderful instruments, to discover the songs within us, and to travel the Far Plain in search of knowledge and to worship the Valar. I have heard you sing, and your beautiful voice is a great gift that should be cherished and developed to its full glory. Would you like to come study with us?"

Lindariel looked from Master Amarthalion's expectant face to Estel's beaming, nodding grin, and finally to Lord Elrond's kind, familiar eyes. Elrond knelt also and laid his hands on her shoulders. "We will see each other every day, my dear, for in all Imladris, this is my favorite place. And Estel comes here often as well to learn songs and hear stories; I believe he has even managed to learn a few tunes on the flute, haven't you, my son?"

Estel blushed and bobbed his head, "I will come even more often if you're here, Lindariel. And when you're finished with your lessons, we can go play in the arbor and make boats and kites and help the cooks chase rabbits out of the vegetable gardens." The two Masters laughed readily at the boy's generous enthusiasm, and Amarthalion squeezed Lindariel's hands gently as he asked, "What say you, my dear? Would you like to meet your classmates?"

Lindariel's cheeks turned as rosy as her hair, but she nodded and whispered, "Yes, I would like that very much," and Amarthalion stood with a satisfied nod to Lord Elrond and led Lindariel over to the youngest group of apprentices.

By the way, Riv, I LOVE the idea of depicting Bilbo's little poetry-writing corner in the Hall of Fire. A quiet nook beside one of the small hearths with small overstuffed chair, a candlestand, a lap desk, and a side table with a plate of "afters" and a cup of tea? A little bit of hobbity comfort in the midst of all that elven grandeur -- it would be charming! And you just know Elrond would INSIST upon providing such a spot for Bilbo!

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”

Thanks, marbretherese! I've actually written quite a bit about Lindariel, housed at the former Writers of Rohan website. However, that website downsized quite some time ago, and it no longer hosts its Tolkien-inspired creative writing threads, so what I've posted is no longer available. PM me if you're curious to see more. I'm happy to share!

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”

Oops, hold your horses! One of the other mods has reminded me that our by-laws contain a rule about no fan fiction. We're discussing whether we'd like to make an exception or even change the rule altogether.

We'll get back to you, Lindariel. Your work is wonderful, but you know what some of the fan fiction is like. My apologies for overstepping the bounds.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

The Mods beat me to it, Merry, because I was going to remind you of exactly that rule -- no fan fiction, or as I choose to describe MY particular leanings, Tolkien-inspired fiction. I think there's a difference between absconding with the Professor's wonderful characters and making them do what YOU want them to do, and genuinely trying to craft tales that "fill the gaps." The latter is my desire -- to imagine the world of the Hall of Fire, and Imladris in general, and incidentally to take a look into the childhood of Estel/Aragorn through the eyes of a little friend. Bilbo, Gandalf, and Thorin & Co. pass through on their way to Erebor, Legolas shows up on a mission from his father, Elladan and Elrohir take on personalities, along with other denizens of Imladris the Professor never mentions -- cooks, herbalists, craftsmen, and of course, singers and musicians.

And, of course, my protagonist has her own mystery and a task awaiting her.

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”

You make some very good points there Lindariel! I think we are all in agreement about what we don't want. We're trying to find a balance where we can have some literary creativity here to add to our art and poems without going past that mark that you've clearly identified. We'll be back to you on this very soon .

Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather...

Thanks Iolanthe! I eagerly await the decision of the Moderators. If I might make the following humble suggestions for your consideration as you contemplate the possibility of creating a set of rules and guidelines for the submission of "Tolkien-inspired Creative Writing":

(1) Any creative piece based on The Professor's work must scrupulously respect canon as set down in The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion. I do not believe that MeJ should tolerate "Alternative Universe" settings.

(2) Establish a rating system for pieces and specify limitations on content (violence, adult behavior, etc.), keeping in mind that battle scenes are not uncommon in The Professor's work, and that he refers to romantic love, but stops well short of anything even remotely resembling innuendo. We DO have at least one under-age member, after all!

(3) Set up a review process, whereby creative stories are submitted to be reviewed for content and for compliance with canon. If approved, THEN the piece will be posted by the reviewers.

(4) As with the paintings, drawings, and poetry already submitted to the site, copyright for all creative stories should be retained by the author.

I'm sure you have other considerations as well, but thought perhaps these thoughts might be helpful.

Thanks again so much for taking this under consideration!

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”

Thanks so much, Iolanthe and Mods, for taking this issue under consideration, and so quickly. My one last little comment is that our last Yule Contest did somewhat open this area of creative endeavor, since it was decided to solicit poems and/or stories depicting an adventure for Gandalf, Bilbo, and Beorn on Dec 25 during their trek back to Beorn's home. The stories that were submitted do somewhat fall within the category of "Tolkien-inspired creative writing," wouldn't you say? So, to a certain extent, MeJ has already opened itself to this form of creative writing under highly limited circumstances. I look forward to your decision, and thank you again for considering opening this avenue of creative expression on this wonderful site!

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”

Post away, Lindariel . We've edited our rules to include guidelines which also, when I look at them again, apply just as much to the art here as well as fiction i.e. keeping things within Tolkien's canon, respectful and PG 13! We don't see any need to review offerings at this point but if we get a sudden surge of fiction writers that need reigning in we can always fall back on plan B .

Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather...

All right then! We'll begin at the beginning. The short story I posted earlier actually comes about 5 or so installments into Lindariel's story.

A Cry in the Night

A child's piercing shriek shattered the calm of evening, followed by the swift patter of small feet. "Lord Elrond! My Lord Elrond! She is awake! Come quickly!" The young boy flew to the side of the Master of Imladris, who rose swiftly and laid a gentle hand on the frantic boy's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Estel. We cannot help her unless our minds are quiet and soothing. She has seen things no child should see, and she has lost her father and mother. To help her, we must be patient and gentle and strong."

Elrond watched with great satisfaction as the boy rapidly composed his emotions. "What do you need, my Lord? How can I help?" Smiling, the tall elf gestured to the cabinet on the other side of his study, "Bring two leaves of athelas and a bowl of steaming water. I will go see her now."

As he glided gracefully and swiftly down the hall and through the archway to his private infirmary, Elrond steeled himself for the sight of the stricken child, who was screaming and struggling against the soft but confining arms of Estel's mother Gilraen. "Hush, little one," she begged, "you are safe, and no one will harm you." But the desperate cries only escalated as the child stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling and screamed.

Elrond reached out and buried one hand in the remarkable dark red hair at the base of the child's delicate neck and placed the other hand across her eyes and forehead, murmuring softly the call to healing, 'Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.' With a ragged sigh, the child collapsed against Gilraen's breast. Kissing the girl softly on the cheek before laying her back against the silken pillows, the woman withdrew to her chair in the corner to make way for Rivendell's master healer, quietly wiping tears from her face.

For several moments, Elrond studied his patient intently. Unusually small for a five-year-old elf maiden, the girl was extremely lovely with delicately arched brows, high cheekbones, a tiny pert nose with just the barest hint of freckles, and plum-stained lips. When open, her large pale blue eyes displayed hidden depths that startled and disturbed him greatly. She was Sighted, there was no question. But to see this power in one so young was unsettling, and he feared that her ordeal, which threatened both her health and her sanity, may have called forth this power too early.

He sensed Estel's presence at his side and smiled fondly at the boy, "Well done. Now, as I have shown you, crush the leaves in your hands." The boy solemnly obeyed the Master. "Now, close your eyes, and hold a vision of her face in your mind. Very good. Take a deep breath, blow on the athelas leaves, and cast them into the water." A clean, sharp scent pervaded the room, refreshing all within -- a heady combination of lavender and hyssop and cedar.

The Master's brow furrowed with pain as he recalled that the child had been found trapped inside an overturned cedar chest partially filled with a magnificent tapestry, a kingly gift from Thranduil of Mirkwood, and scented with small sachets of lavender and hyssop. His sons had been too late in coming to the aid of the royal caravan bearing Thranduil's emissary and his retinue. The marauding orcs had managed to slaughter every member of the party before being driven off by the patrol -- all except this tiny survivor, found trembling, wide-eyed, and senseless in the wreckage of her mother's wain.

"What did you see, dear one?" Elrond murmured softly as he cupped the tiny face gently in his hands, "Where are you wandering to escape this horror?" Estel watched breathlessly as the Master touched his forehead to the little girl's brow, his voice so low that only a quiet crooning could be discerned. The child stirred, eyelids and hands fluttering, but she made no sound.

Deep within the Master's inner eye, a cloudy grey plain opened to reveal a flower-strewn meadow some twenty leagues from the borders of Imladris. There, the ruby-haired maiden danced in the sun, singing a wordless song, her strong, bell-like voice utterly enchanting. As Elrond approached this vision of the child, she stopped dead in her tracks and whirled around in a sudden panic. Instantly, the vision changed, and he found himself looking out of the child's eyes. She was huddled on the floor inside a covered wain, sounds of a desperate battle all around her. A tall elven woman clambered under the tarp and over the side of the wagon, her face torn and bleeding, clutching a bloody dagger to her breast. Gasping, "Not a sound, child," she threw open a heavy cedar chest and urged the girl inside, covering her with the tapestry.

"Not a sound, Lindariel, my dearest," she whispered, "They must not find you. May the Valar protect you!" And with a stifled cry, the woman hastily kissed the girl and closed the trunk. Utter darkness descended, and Elrond's heart bled as he sensed the child's rising panic. The chest swayed violently back and forth as muffled cries, screams, and bellows penetrated the heavy wood. Then, it seemed the entire world turned upside down, tumbling wildly, as the sound of cracking wood, broken crockery, and the death shriek of the girl's mother pierced him through and through.

Blackness of a different sort filled his mind, and in a sudden blinding light, he saw the grief-stricken face of his son Elladan and several of the Dunedain rangers as they gathered around the staring girl. Beyond them, he saw the horrendous bodies of many dead orcs, and even worse, the lifeless form of the girl's mother beside the corpse of an elven man, who by resemblance was clearly her father. Then the vision began collapsing upon itself, and he saw the figure of the child Lindariel running mindlessly into the grey mists of his inner eye.

"Lindariel, child of Eru Iluvatar, daughter of song, hear me," Elrond cried, and again he intoned, this time with the power of command, "Lindariel, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" In the distance, the vision of Lindariel stopped and turned, tears coursing down her face. "Lindariel, child of light, hearken to me. Mandos has taken your loving mother and father to his breast, and they are beyond care and sadness and pain. Come to me, and be comforted. Do not dwell in the darkness of your despair! The Valar have protected you and granted you great gifts. Come to me. Be healed and rest, and let us discover together the path that Eru intends for you."

The child took several faltering steps, then hesitated, burying her face in her hands with a heart-rending sob. "Lindariel, child of light, hearken to me! I am Elrond, Half-Elven, Master of Healing, Servant of Manwë, Lord of the Skies. Come to me! Tolo dan nan galad!" And with this last command, the child lifted her face and ran crying into his arms.

In the darkening room, Gilraen leaned forward eagerly as the girl stirred, gasped, and then threw herself sobbing around the Master's neck. Estel, who had remained stock-still at Elrond's side, whirled and dashed to his mother, burying his wet face in her hair. "Do not fear, my sweet son," she crooned in his ear, "The Master has called her back to herself. Now she can begin to heal."

The boy wept and whispered haltingly in Gilraen"s ear, "I saw her wandering, lost in the grey mist. I thought she would never come back!" A quiver passed through Gilraen's body as she hugged her son closer to her breast.

"Estel, come here," said Elrond quietly but firmly. With a kiss, Gilraen reluctantly released him. Over the top of the sobbing girl's head, Elrond intently examined the boy's face, asking, "You saw her?" The boy nodded. "Did you hear her name?" The boy whispered, "Lindariel, daughter of song."

Elrond closed his eyes and murmured, "One day, you will be a great healer, Estel, my son, if you remain faithful to your path and renounce the Darkness forever. You have done well, but you should sleep now. Go with your mother, and I will come see you in your room." He watched intently as the woman and his foster son left the infirmary. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he mused soundlessly, "In you I see the wisdom of Elendil, the strength of Isildur, and the compassion and healing arts of Elros, my brother. May you rekindle the glory of Numenor that was."

Turning to the crying child, whose sobs were abating with exhaustion, he gently lowered her back down to the bed, took her tiny hands in his, and looked into the startling blue eyes, no longer sightless with horror. "Lindariel, my little one, do you remember who I am?" She whispered haltingly through trembling lips, "You are Lord Elrond, who called me from the land of the shadow." He nodded, gently washing the tears from her face, "And I will care for you now. Be at peace and sleep."

As though commanded, Lindariel's eyelids drooped, and she passed into a dreamless sleep. Elrond smoothed the russet curls back from her forehead with a kiss and sighed, "Lindariel, daughter of song. May the Valar grant me wisdom to guide your feet and bring you comfort in your grief."

Lindariel

“Therefore I say: Eä! Let these things Be! And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable, and it shall be at the heart of the World, and the World shall Be.”